The Blowback Protocol: A Sam Jameson Thriller

by Emmerich, Lars

  Hayward eyed the guard closely. Alarms were sounding in his head, but he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Twelve it is,” Sam said.

  “You need a key card to work the elevator,” the guard said. He turned and limped back to his desk. “I’ll lend you one, but you’ll have to leave a picture ID with me.”

  “No problem,” Sam said. She fished in her wallet and handed an ID card to the security man.

  “Is this a library card?”

  “It’s got a photo.”

  He shrugged, took her library card, and handed her a magnetic access card in exchange.

  Hayward again eyed the rent-a-cop. There was something familiar about the man, but Hayward couldn’t conjure any details.

  “Let’s go,” Sam said, pressing the elevator button. “No time to waste.”

  The elevator doors opened immediately. She swiped the card through the reader on the control panel. When the light turned green, she chose the eleventh floor. Hayward nodded his approval. The party was on the twelfth, but they wanted to be sure they didn’t walk into an ambush.

  * * *

  The elevator doors parted. Sam bounded through the opening, rolled, and came to rest in a kneeling position, her gun pointed to the right side of the elevator. Hayward followed immediately behind her, clearing to the left.

  They searched the eleventh floor. It was dark and empty. They found nothing but modular office furniture, filing cabinets, and empty conference rooms.

  “Time to go upstairs,” Sam said.

  There were two stairwells, one on either end of the building. They considered splitting up, one per stairway, but decided to stay together for mutual support. Sam took the lead and Hayward didn’t argue. With his arm still in a cast, he was best in a supporting role.

  Sam walked on the balls of her feet and padded slowly up the first pair of stairs. She crouched low and peered around the rail to clear the far side of the landing. It was empty.

  Hayward followed several paces back as she quietly gained the twelfth floor. There was no little window in the stairwell access door, so they were forced to go in blind.

  Sam put her ear to the door. She heard muffled voices in the distance. Perhaps Grange was still here. It would be an interesting conversation, if there was to be any conversation at all. But maybe there wouldn’t be. Maybe this would be all about settling scores. The thought caused a new surge of adrenaline in her system.

  Sam took a breath and pushed gently on the metal door lever.

  Lightning leapt from the handle and into her hand. Fifty-five thousand volts raced through her nerves and exploded in her head. The electricity threw her to the floor. She landed in a heap, unconscious.

  * * *

  Lights flooded the corner. The door flew open from the inside. Hayward leveled his pistol.

  Three men in blue suits poured through the opening. Each aimed a pistol of their own.

  Hayward calculated his odds. Sam lay in a heap, unconscious. Her gun was on the floor. All three men stood in the Weaver firing position. Their gun sights were rock steady on his center of mass. Odds: roughly zero.

  For a brief moment, he thought of just pulling the trigger. He’d take one of them out on his way to the afterlife. It would all be over. No more looking over his shoulder. No more struggling for air under the CIA’s stranglehold.

  No more frantic, soul-crushing worry about Katrin.

  Katrin.

  Hayward took a breath, dropped the gun, and raised his hands in surrender.

  67

  Sam opened her eyes. The pain in her head was overpowering. Nausea set in. Her empty stomach dry-heaved. Bile and acid crept upward and burned her throat. “Water,” she said.

  “I don’t think so,” said a male voice. With effort, Sam focused on its source. A military man, plucked out of his military uniform and stuffed into a suit, holding a large caliber handgun. “She’s awake, Will,” he said into his cuff.

  Sam took in her surroundings. She was seated on the floor in the anteroom to a large executive office. Judging by the décor, they were still on the twelfth floor. She saw the seal of the National Intelligence Directorate embossed on the frosted glass door to the inner sanctum. On the floor was a shoebox-sized electrical transformer and a set of jumper cables. That might account for the lightning in my fucking head, she surmised.

  Hayward was seated on the floor next to her, good arm zip-tied to his opposite ankle, broken arm zip-tied to the arm of a chair. Sam ruled out any ninja-like activity on Hayward’s part. He probably wasn’t going to be saving the day, and neither was she. Her wrists were bound together behind her back and her ankles were fastened as well.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed, Ms. Jameson,” her guard said.

  “That’s debatable,” Sam said. “And just so we’re clear on the stakes, it’s Special Agent Jameson. I’m a federal agent with Homeland Security.”

  The man smiled. “Any way you want it, ma’am. We were authorized to use lethal force. You’re lucky I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “I’m flattered,” Hayward deadpanned.

  The man with the gun clearly had a witty comeback in the hopper, but he never got to deliver it. A radio transmission came through his earpiece, instructions of some sort. He and his cohorts took turns speaking into their cuffs to acknowledge the orders. Their bodies took on a more rigid pose. Someone important was on the way.

  * * *

  “My congratulations,” said Alexander Worthington. It was late in the evening on a Saturday but he was wearing an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit with a silk power tie. He stood ramrod straight with his hands at his sides. He was used to being in charge, Hayward noted. “You’ve succeeded in becoming a colossal threat to national security,” Worthington said.

  “I’m flattered,” Sam said. “Have we met?”

  “Forgive me,” Worthington said. “Alexander Worthington, Director of National Intelligence.”

  “Charmed,” Sam said.

  Worthington turned to Hayward. “You are the ChemEspaña operative.”

  Hayward said nothing.

  “I expected better,” Worthington said.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Enough to know you’re a traitor.”

  Hayward bristled. “Fuck you. I didn’t betray my country.”

  “You sabotaged your mission,” Worthington said.

  “Bullshit. I did the right thing.”

  “You turned against your team.”

  “Cowards and murderers.”

  Worthington’s lips flattened and his eyes darkened. “Mr. Hayward, in our line of work we don’t shy away from doing what must be done to protect this nation.”

  “Like rape and murder?”

  Worthington chuckled. “Your arrogance and outrage are amusing, Mr. Hayward. But you seem to be forgetting your own culpability.”

  “I didn’t slice a woman’s wrist and let her bleed to death,” Hayward said. “I didn’t rape and bludgeon a girl. I didn’t beat her father half to death.”

  “But you enabled all those things,” Worthington said. “In fact, you made them necessary. You knew what would happen if you didn’t succeed.”

  “These people are innocent civilians!”

  Worthington shook his head. “I don’t preside over innocence or guilt. I simply take action to neutralize threats.”

  “An old man and his family?” Hayward spat. “That’s your fucking threat?”

  “They come in many forms,” Worthington said. “I try to remain objective about the risks.”

  “Where have you taken them?”

  “I haven’t taken them anywhere,” Worthington said. “I am not a field operative.”

  “I want to see Grange.”

  Worthington paced, hands behind his back. A long moment passed. “Grange is not here,” he finally said.

  “Get him,” Hayward said. “I want Katrin and Joao taken to a hospital, now.”

  “Your concern i
s touching.”

  “You will never get what you’re after, you son of a bitch,” Hayward said.

  Worthington seemed amused. “How do you know what I’m after?”

  “It didn’t take much deduction. The CIA sent me to get it for you.”

  “And you failed.”

  Hayward shook his head. “Wrong. I didn’t fail.”

  Worthington spread his arms. “Then where is the data?”

  “Release Katrin and Joao. Then we’ll talk about the data.”

  Worthington studied Hayward. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have it.”

  “Revision seventeen-point-three. Safe and sound.”

  Worthington’s chin jutted forward. “You will hand it over immediately,” he said.

  “Not until you meet my conditions.”

  “You are aware that we have extremely persuasive means at our disposal,” Worthington said.

  Hayward laughed bitterly. “Like kidnapping? Torture?”

  Worthington smiled. “Rendition and enhanced interrogation, you mean. They are the terms of art in your chosen profession. When the threat becomes too great for the luxury of process and procedure, we do what must be done.”

  “You slit the wrists of an innocent woman,” Hayward spat. “You tortured a man. You beat and raped his daughter.”

  “I did none of those things.”

  “You had them done, which is worse, because you don’t have the spine to do them yourself.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Worthington said. “The United States does not commit kidnapping, rape, or murder.”

  “Except when it does,” Hayward said. “Where are they?”

  Worthington smiled. “I rather thought you might have arranged this little situation,” he said, gesturing toward his office, “but it looks like things have taken a much more positive turn.”

  “What are you talking about? Where the fuck are they?”

  “If you have the information the United States requires, I would like to secure that information,” Worthington said. “Perhaps we can work an exchange.”

  “You know where Katrin and Joao are?”

  A smug smile came over Worthington’s face. “I do indeed.”

  Hayward straightened up and tugged at his restraints. “Hand them over, Worthington. Get them to a hospital right now. Then we’ll talk.”

  Worthington shook his head. “I’m afraid not. First, the data, please.”

  “Not without an agreement,” Hayward said.

  “I don’t think you fully understand your situation.”

  “Wrong,” Hayward said. “I understand completely. I have the data, and you don’t. If you want it, here are my conditions: you release Joao and Katrin immediately. When they recover from their injuries, you will offer them witness protection.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Worthington said.

  “I’m not finished. You will also release me from all obligation to the CIA. No conditions, no strings, no surveillance, and no goddamned Bill Fredericks showing up out of the blue at any point in the future.”

  The director shook his head.

  “And you will see to it that the Department of Justice drops the indictment against Sam Jameson,” Hayward said. “Homeland will issue a statement praising her judgment and professionalism.”

  The director laughed. “Nothing else? You don’t want fifty pounds of gold? A summer home in the Hamptons?”

  “As you say,” Hayward said, “our nation’s security is on the line.”

  “You’re aware that we have the option to employ extremely persuasive means to retrieve that data from you,” Worthington threatened again.

  “Painfully aware,” Hayward said, “but it won’t do you any good. You can’t possibly torture me fast enough.”

  Worthington cocked his head.

  “My offer comes with a very short fuse,” Hayward said. “Unless I intervene at specific times, the data will be emailed to the Associated Press. It happens automatically unless I stop it.”

  Confusion turned to amusement. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Try me, Worthington. I fucking dare you. You’ll be the guy who let the nuclear genie out of the bottle. Your career will be over before sunrise.”

  “You wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “It’s already done. Your clock is ticking.”

  Worthington frowned and Hayward pressed him. “You have my offer. Take it or leave it,” Hayward said.

  Worthington resumed pacing, hands behind his back, lips pursed. A silence fell over the room.

  “Last chance,” Hayward said. “You want ChemEspaña hanging around your neck?”

  More time passed. Worthington paced, brow furrowed, jaw working. Then he turned to Hayward and smiled. “Tempted as I am to extract the data from you the hard way, and notwithstanding your amateurish threat, I accept your offer. Contingent, of course, on your delivering the goods.”

  “First things first,” Hayward said. “Katrin and Joao. Prove to me they are still alive, then get an ambulance to them. Right fucking now, Worthington.”

  Worthington smiled. “I am pleased to tell you that I am able to grant the first of your requests immediately.”

  This time it was Hayward’s turn to be confused.

  Worthington turned to his head of security. “Mr. Fleming, please release Mr. Hayward from his bindings and escort him to my office.”

  The pieces fell into place in Hayward’s mind. “Katrin and Joao are here?”

  Worthington smiled. “A beautiful bit of serendipity, don’t you think?”

  “On this floor?”

  “Yes,” Worthington said. “Mere feet from us. Delivered by the gods, evidently. It must be a gratifying end to your struggle.”

  But it wasn’t. Because once the pieces started to fall into place, they didn’t stop. The picture came together in an avalanche of connections.

  A house divided.

  Joao and Katrin. Alexander Worthington. Sam Jameson and James Hayward. All together on the same floor of a government building in downtown DC on a Saturday night.

  All Grange’s loose ends.

  Hayward’s mind flashed to the man at the security desk. He thought of the security guard’s uniform and the cap pulled low and the thick glasses obscuring the man’s eyes. He thought of the prominent chin and hawk-like nose. Hayward suddenly knew what had bothered him about the security guard. He understood why the dim candle of recognition kept trying to light itself in the back of his mind.

  The man in the security guard’s uniform was Artemis Grange.

  “Oh, God,” Hayward said.

  It was all he had time to say.

  The shock wave moved at the speed of sound. It radiated outward, air compressed to unreasonable density, wielding ungodly force, racing through the director’s domain alongside deadly shards of metal built to rip flesh and slash through sinew. Then came the heat, moving just a little slower, impossibly hot and bright, impossibly quick, impossibly devastating.

  * * *

  Artemis Grange stood in the center of the crowd of gawkers outside the National Intelligence Directorate. He looked up at the top floor and stifled a smile at the sight of the flames licking out of the shattered windows. He pushed the thick glasses up his nose and adjusted the night watchman’s wheel cap covering his bald spot. In his pocket was a disposable cell phone, which was also the detonator.

  More police cars and fire vehicles arrived by the moment. Grange heard the crackle of handheld radios and the murmur of a stunned crowd. He watched as firemen brought victims of the blast out of the building and transported them to waiting ambulances. Not one of the victims was conscious, several were in very bad shape, and several were in pieces.

  A truckload of Metro PD officers arrived and Grange took it as his cue to melt into the shadows. He slipped away silently, his gait purposeful but unhurried.

  A few blocks from the scene, he tossed the burner phone into a sewer opening. He walked another mile to the Crystal Ci
ty Metro entrance and descended the stairs. He removed his hat and stared at the security camera, imagining the alarm bells going off in surveillance centers across the District.

  Grange turned right at the bottom of the escalator and used a key to open a janitor’s closet. He retrieved a duffel bag from a supply cabinet and pulled out a wig, a hat, a change of clothes, a passport, a thick roll of Euros, and a Smith and Wesson 9mm.

  Moments later, he rode the escalator back up to street level. A car was waiting for him and he got inside.

  “It’s a nice evening for a plane ride, don’t you think?” The driver spoke in a nearly undecipherable Malaysian singsong.

  “A nice evening indeed,” Grange said.

  68

  Sam awoke in a hospital bed. She saw Dan Gable and FBI man Alfonse Archer seated nearby in visitor’s chairs. She followed their eyes to the television suspended in the corner of the room. Sam’s head hurt and it took effort to focus her eyes on the screen. She made out the familiar cable news logo and recognized the anchorman as he spoke in grave tones about a vicious terror attack in the heart of the nation’s capital that left nine dead and seven wounded.

  Sam surveyed her body for injuries. She had a few dozen small shrapnel wounds and minor burns in addition to a splitting headache. There was an IV in her arm. She moved her limbs and felt no numbness or pain, and she couldn’t find any braces or casts. She had somehow missed the worst of the blast.

  “What time is it?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and she needed something to drink.

  Dan and Archer both shot from their chairs to her side. Both leaned in for an embrace. “You had me worried,” Archer said. “You should have seen the carnage they pulled from the twelfth floor.”

  “Hayward?” Sam asked.

  “He’s recovering,” Dan said, handing her a glass of water. “Minor injuries, like yours.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She survived, too,” Archer said, “but just barely. They have her sedated and she’s due for surgery soon.” His eyes darkened. “Her father didn’t make it.”

  Sam shook her head. “What a fucking waste.” She looked around the room again to get her bearings. The clock on the nightstand read 3:32 a.m. No wonder her eyes burned with exhaustion. She took a long drink of water, surprised at how wonderful it tasted.